In the Long Run

“Double the taxes! Triple the taxes! I’ll make them pay!”

This line from my kids’ Robin Hood cassette story came to mind in the middle of my first spinning class of the new session yesterday. Only it wasn’t taxes I wanted to double and triple. It was the amount of tension or resistance on the class participants’ bikes. Actually it was the resistance on one specific participant’s bike. Let me explain.

I have a petty grudge against a certain man in my town. I know it’s immature, and shows a lack of character, because the guy really did not do anything intentionally to deserve my ire. Yet some extenuating circumstances have resulted in my feeling resentful toward him. The man is oblivious of my tempered rancor.

So when he walked into my cycling class, I was initially caught off guard. How should I act?! Polite, but reserved? Standoffish? Cold? Nasty? Hostile?!

I chose to be devious, and I was quite pleased with my cordial charade. My amicable manner covered my inner disdain as I helped him sign the attendance form and set up his bike. All the while I was wickedly thinking, “He’s going to have the ride of his life.”

As we began the intense aerobic portion of the class, I kept my eye on the man. It wasn’t long before he was sweating, and his pedaling lagged.

“Keep the pace, everyone!” I called out cheerily. “No slackers!” I looked pointedly at my victim, and he struggled to maintain the rapid pedaling pace.

I added more intensity to some of the already challenging elements of the simulated bike ride. “Be sure to work at your own level,” I encouraged, knowing full well that pride would keep him pushing himself hard. “We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt!” (“Or would we?” I thought maliciously to myself.) I flashed what I imagined was a sweet, benignly innocent smile at the man. He didn’t see it because his head was hanging, and he was toiling with obvious strain and exertion.

I was relentless. Even though it was the first day back after a long break, I subjected the whole class to a grueling regimen of exhausting accelerations, laborious hill climbs, strenuous sprints, and lengthy out-of-the saddle intervals.

He didn’t stay for the whole class. Red-faced and perspiration-soaked, the man put his bike away before I could subject him to the last 15 minutes of killer abdominal exercises. But, on his way out, he thanked me. Hmmm. Maybe I’m not such a bad character after all if the victim of my sweet revenge is grateful for the experience.

Posted by Cyppy at 7:59 PM